The New Verse
by samvimes
Summary: There's a new verse to an old song about the Patrician, and Vimes isn't happy about it...


How interesting. Even when I am sick at home abed, the Terrible Hour of Filk will not let   
me alone. Picture me, huddled foetally under a pile of blankets, moaning "what else   
rhymes with 'could'?"  
  
This one was inspired by Canon, in part, and in part by the fanfiction "The Patrician's  
Ball" by Jo Bendle, which quoted the canon that reminded me that inspired me that...  
anyhow.  
  
To keep rhythm, "Eorle" is pronounced "Earl". Ahaha, Mr. Pratchett, that's a good one...   
  
I encourage reviewers to join in with their own verse. Come on, let's make a sport of it!   
First one to write a verse about Drumknott never getting to organise any balls wins a   
prize...  
  
THE NEW VERSE  
A filk cleverly disguised as a fanfic.  
  
Lord Vetinari seldom had balls. There was a popular song about it, in fact. But now it   
was going to be balls all the way.  
--Guards! Guards!  
  
"Let me sing you a song of Ankh-Morpork's lords  
They're so many and varied, you'll never be bored  
And most of them often have such fancy balls  
But there's one man who hasn't got any at all..."  
  
Sir Samuel Vimes leaned back in his chair in the Bucket, slid his helmet off his head,   
and let Carrot make their order. He even smiled when the Watchmen started to sing. A   
drunken Watchman, singing vaguely off-key and mumbling half the words, was something he'd   
rather see than be, as he had in the past; besides, the lads* had to unwind some time,   
lord knew.   
  
---  
* And ladies, he had to remind himself, since more and more of the dwarves joining up   
were already wearing mascara, and even a couple of human women who apparently weren't   
very good with a needle had decided a life in the Watch wasn't so bad.   
---  
  
He doubted they'd be singing if they knew he was there; having your boss about tended to   
put a damper on after-work leisure time, so he often came in through the side door and   
sat near the back.   
  
It was further from the bar, anyway.  
  
"Oh, Selachii has balls that'll fill a whole house  
And Rust has balls too, sometimes even has jousts  
(He's head of the Peeled Nuts, lets them use his hall)  
But Lord Vetinari has no balls at all."  
  
The Watchmen let Nobby, who was a big man in the Ankh-Morpork Historical Re-creation   
society, sing the third line alone; he had a suprisingly good tenor.   
  
"The Duke of Eorle has balls, they're quite well attended  
The costumed balls of Lord Venturi are splendid  
The Seamestresses often attend others' balls,   
But Lord Vetinari has no balls at all."  
  
It had been a good day to be a Watchman. Nobody'd been shot at, for one. No unusually   
troublesome prisoners. If there was unlicenced thieving going on, the Thieves' Guild was   
getting there first. The city had approved a new weapons budget.   
  
And a new class of lance-constables was arriving tomorrow, which meant that today,   
several officers had been promoted. Vimes never thought he'd see the day when he witnessed   
unalloyed pride in a Watchman's face, for the fact that he was a Watchman*, but it   
pleased him just the same. And the little cynical voice inside him that said they were   
just happy for the five dollar pay increase had been, for the most part, silent.  
  
---  
* Carrot didn't count.   
---  
  
"Other Patricians had balls, d'you see,  
And there always were balls when Ankh-Morpork had kings  
But lately, it seems, our ruler's on a roll  
And hasn't got time to hold his own balls."  
  
Besides, Vimes liked this song. He liked that his officers could sing it with   
more-or-less impunity; anyone else caught singing it was likely to have a long and   
interesting encounter with the Patrician. Or rather, with the Patrician's scorpion pit.   
  
For some reason, Vetinari tolerated it amongst the Watchmen, and so Vimes encouraged it.  
  
"He had them sometimes and of course people came,  
But the Palace is drafty and somewhat mundane  
And when he had them, they were so very small  
That he made the decision, there'd be no more balls."  
  
Carrot arrived, with their drinks.   
  
"Here you are, sir, Lemonade for you, beer for Angua and Sergeant Colon, and milk for me.   
Where's Angua got to?"  
  
"I think she's getting a bite to eat," Vimes said, though he suspected Angua wanted to   
join in the singing. Carrot didn't really approve of any song that could be sung in a   
pub.   
  
"I've never understood this one," Carrot continued. "I mean, is it really so terrible   
that the Patrician hasn't any balls?"  
  
Colon snorted into his beer. Vimes thumped him on the back, to cover his own cough of   
amusement. Sometimes Carrot could be strangely innocent, even now.  
  
"Probably doesn't want to be bothered with the clean-up," Carrot continued. Vimes bit his   
lip. "It's got to get rather messy, eh?"  
  
"Messy," Colon gasped, because Vimes was entirely beyond words. "Yes. I'm sure that's   
it."  
  
"Now, Old Ramkin had balls like nobody could  
But the best balls these days are from old Lord de Worde  
Once in a while there are grand charity balls,  
But His Lordship Patrician will have none at all."  
  
"Good evening, Angua," Vimes said, still fighting down laughter as Angua approached with   
a bowl of peanuts. He couldn't look at Colon. He couldn't. If he did, he'd never be able   
to say it. "We were just...discussing...balls."  
  
That did for Fred Colon. "Excuse me," he mumbled, and took his beer off into the crowd,   
where he could laugh himself sick.   
  
"The Wizards have balls, but only one a year,  
If you make them have more they'll make you disappear  
I wouldn't eat food from the Assassin's balls,  
And Lord Vetinari has no balls at all."  
  
"I was saying I never understood why people make so much fun of Lord Vetinari for not   
having balls," Carrot said earnestly. "I mean, really. There are lots of people in the   
city who don't have balls. I know I don't."  
  
Angua gave Vimes a covert look. The singing had stopped, and they couldn't use the noise   
to drown out any effort at concealing laughter. Vimes put his face in his hands.  
  
"Are you all right, sir?" Carrot asked.  
  
"Fine...Carrot...just...tired," he managed.   
  
"Carrot," Angua said gently. "It's a play on words."  
  
"Really?" Carrot looked thoughtful. "Which ones?"  
  
"Balls."  
  
"Well, now, there's no need to -- "  
  
"No, Carrot," Angua continued, in the same gentle voice. "Balls is the pune."  
  
Vimes looked up. Carrot's lips were moving as he repeated a few choice lines to himself.   
A look of dawning horror crossed his face like the sunrise of armageddon.  
  
"But that's...that's...it's cruel!" he said.   
  
"No, he doesn't /really/ have no balls -- well, for all I know -- but -- "   
  
Angua was drowned out by a roar of laughter from nearby. Constable Thundergust stood up   
on a chair -- which was really the only way a dwarf could be visible in a non-dwarvish   
bar.  
  
"Heard the new one, lads?" he asked. The watchmen from further off in the corners   
gathered close. A couple of other dwarves, in beautiful harmony, began to sing.   
  
"Sir Samuel Vimes has balls, but doesn't enjoy them  
He rather thinks that he could better employ 'em  
So often he runs off and just leaves his balls  
And poor Vetinari has no balls at all."  
  
There was a resounding, standing ovation.   
  
"Oh dear," Angua murmured. Carrot was still repeating lines from the song to himself, in   
mortification.   
  
"Where'd you hear it?" Corporal Ping asked.  
  
"Picked it up from the Palace Guard. Don't know where they got it," Thundergust replied.  
  
Vimes thought he might know. It would explain Vetinari's tolerance of the Watchmen's   
choir. He stood up.  
  
The sound of his chair scraping backwards echoed through every Watchman's ear, and   
flipped the little switch marked 'panic'.   
  
Thundergust dropped his mug.  
  
Vimes clapped, slowly.  
  
"Sing that one again," he said, in his best I Am The Commander voice.  
  
"Er...didn't see you there, sir..." Thundergust stammered.  
  
"Obviously," Vimes answered. "Where'd you get it, did you say? Palace Guard?"  
  
Thundergust hesitated.   
  
"Constable?"  
  
"Yes, sir," he said miserably. Vimes nodded.   
  
"A poet, in the Palace. Imagine that. Any other scurrilous verse been circulating about   
me, lately?"  
  
"Nosir, no, sir...we wouldn't have sung it if we knew you was -- "  
  
"No, I'm sure you wouldn't have." Vimes gave the dwarf a funny little smile. "I'll tell   
you what, lads. Let's keep that last verse among Watchmen, shall we? If Lady Sybil hears   
it, I will personally make sure that the feet of the being who told her never touch the   
ground again."  
  
There was a nodding of helmeted heads. Vimes sat down. Thundergust let out a relieved   
sigh.   
  
"It's /horrible/," Carrot said. He didn't appear to have heard any of the past few   
minutes' conversation.  
  
"Oh, it's not so bad. It keeps the rhyme, and -- " Angua caught her Commander's look.   
"But of course it isn't appropriate to sing, really. I'll make sure nobody does, sir."  
  
"Thank you," Vimes said. And sipped his lemonade.  
  
And grinned.  
  
END 


End file.
